The morning was heavy with the scent of iron and ash, though the battle had not yet begun. Rowan stood shoulder to shoulder with his fellow soldiers, his sword already slick with oil from sharpening, his armor creaking as he shifted. Across the field, the banners of their enemy snapped in the wind, black against the bruised sky.

He thought of Lyanna. She had stood before him only yesterday, her hands on his arm, her eyes wide with a fear he had not seen in her since childhood. “Don’t go,” she had whispered. “Rowan, please… you don’t understand what waits for you.” He had shaken his head, swallowing the unease her tone planted in him. “I swore an oath. I can’t turn my back now. You know that.” Her face had fallen, and something unreadable passed in her gaze—a mix of sorrow, guilt, and something he could not name. He had left before she could say more.

Now, with the horns blaring, the army surged forward, steel clashing like thunder. Rowan moved with them, his training taking hold. The battlefield erupted into chaos—screams, blood, the clash of blades. He struck down one man, parried another, pushed forward into the madness.

Then the sky darkened.

A shadow moved across the battlefield, so vast it silenced even the clash of steel. Rowan froze, sword half-raised, as a roar split the heavens. From the clouds descended a dragon, its wings blotting out the last rays of the sun. Black scales shimmered like obsidian, fire leaking from its jaws before bursting outward in a torrent of flame. Whole lines of soldiers were incinerated, reduced to ash and twisted armor in heartbeats. The stench of burning flesh filled Rowan’s lungs.

Panic surged through the ranks. Men broke formation, screaming, scattering like ants before a storm. Rowan gritted his teeth, staring upward. How could they fight this? No sword, no spear, no shield could withstand such a monster. For the first time in years, real fear rooted him to the earth.

And then—her voice.

“Rowan!”

He turned, disbelieving, and there she was. Lyanna, striding through smoke and chaos, her gown torn and dirt-streaked, her hair wild around her face. She did not belong here, among soldiers and death, yet she came straight toward him.

“Lyanna?!” His voice cracked with confusion and disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes locked on his, shimmering with tears and regret. She looked apologetic—broken, almost—as if confessing something wordless. “I can’t let you die here,” she shouted, her voice carrying over the screams and the dragon’s roar.

Before Rowan could move, she turned away from him and raised her arms toward the sky.

The air changed. It thickened, hummed, alive with power Rowan had never felt. Purple light flared around her hands, coiling upward like smoke, and then lightning split the heavens. Massive bolts crashed down onto the dragon’s scales, bursting with deafening force. The beast reeled back, shrieking in fury, its wings flailing as arcs of power scorched its body. Soldiers all around froze, some falling to their knees in terror—not of the dragon, but of her.

Rowan stood rooted, his breath stolen, his heart hammering as understanding clawed its way through him. Lyanna—gentle, patient Lyanna, who nursed wounded fawns and smiled in the forest light—was a sorceress.

The dragon’s molten eyes fixed on her. It snarled, flame seething in its throat, but she did not falter. Raising her voice in a tongue Rowan did not know, she shouted words that vibrated through the air itself. The language was ancient, raw, older than the banners and swords around them.

The dragon froze. Its rage shifted into something else—recognition. It let out a final, piercing cry, then turned, its massive wings sweeping gales of wind over the battlefield. With a few mighty beats, it rose into the dark clouds, vanishing into the storm.

Silence followed. Not the silence of peace, but of shock, of thousands of eyes watching a truth they could not unsee.

Rowan stood trembling, sword limp at his side, staring at the woman who had just saved them all. Lyanna lowered her arms slowly.